


Letter From A Friend

by Sleeping_Martyr



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Elder Scrolls Lore, Gen, Not so much Dragonborn, The Aedra And Daedra Must Be Crazy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 09:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20079745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleeping_Martyr/pseuds/Sleeping_Martyr
Summary: I've played too much Skyrim. Morrowind, too, for that matter. The in-game plot hole of the mysterious "Letters from a Friend" bugged me enough to dope out a theory about the responsible party, and the resulting story (and in-story delivery system) involves so much Vvardenfall miscellania because I miss part three, plain and simple. Dunno about updating with any kind of regularity, but I'll try. Rating is due to some naughty words here and there, and some potential asskickery later on.





	Letter From A Friend

The work of the courier wasn't glamorous, but Adlan was convinced that it was more important than any other job on the continent. Had thought so since his youth on the mainland, as a matter of fact. "Adventure and fame needn't go hand in hand," he'd once said. The apprentice he'd been speaking to had nodded, looking like he'd been granted a pearl of wisdom. Adlan let it go. Most of the young ones treated his words as scripture, and he still wasn't entirely comfortable with that fact. All he was usually doing was passing on advice he'd picked up from the old man in his own youth. In mind, the words were more frank, and accented with a peculiar Ebonheart twang. Adventurers get their asses killed, the old man had been fond of saying. Don't go looking for trouble. Given the nature of the work, and given enough time, trouble will find you.

That advice hadn't been about courier work, of course. But these days, in what should be the twilight of his life, courier work was all that mattered to him. It wasn't easy, but it paid well. The jobs in the pissant vassal states paid very well indeed, in both coin and experience. This land, fraught with strife and the unfortunate racial undertone of the nationalism expressed by certain residents, was a challenge; but Adlan had always been defined by his challenges. "You're different than a passel of these fetchers," the old man had once told him, and this was part of his long history which he wouldn't share with any of the others, apprentice or full-fledged courier. Or law enforcement, for that matter, as the "difference" being discussed was a willingness to kill man and mer as silently as possible without leaving a trace.

Ancient history. 

That morning, the 17th of Last Seed, Dunmer courier Adlan Romayn (formerly and late of the metropolitan capital city, and one-time explorer and inhabitant of Vvardenfall before the wars) had broken fast in a tavern called The Bee and Barb. Charming establishment, for as provincial as the city of Riften could be, and meals were included in the cost of lodging. Today had been poached tern eggs and toast, and a flagon of something only nominally alcoholic to wash it down. Normally, some of the younger ones would be dining with him. They enjoyed his company, and Adlan had long since discovered the simple joy of making them laugh. He could be a clown, there was no harm in it. Today, however, the Nord lass Alessa, she of the portentious name and optimistic worldview, was leafleting the city in the latest attempt by the temple of Dibella to increase the reach of their sacred word. Butts in Pews, they called it amongst themselves. Poor girl. One of the triplets (Ben or Maurus, Adlan wasn't sure) had taken the run to Winterhold through the hotsprings, and the other two (Kiel and his brother. Damn difficult keeping them straight) were on a leisurely stroll to Ivarstead. Good for them. As such, there were no postings at the moment, and all the time in the world for eggs and toast. Of all the taverns in all the pockmarks upon the map of Skyrim, none of them bothered with the niceties of the breakfast meal quite the way this one did. It was enough to make any agnostic reconsider his position, no matter how hidebound. 

The Argonian barmaid had just served him, and Adlan was just about to take his first bite, when a stranger took the seat across from him at the table. "You're the courier, then." 

It hadn't been a question. "I am," Adlan allowed. He looked at the other man. Old, by the standards of men, perhaps eighty or so, and pale. He looked as if he hadn't seen the sun in months. Ratway was Adlan's first thought, and his gaze narrowed a bit. It was understood locally that little good came from the dwellers of Riften's underworks, but he could handle himself well enough, and this particular specimen seemed harmless. "Glad of the company, if that's what you offer. I'm firm in my religion, however, and in no mood to purchase anything. Sorry if that hampers your plans." 

The other man almost smiled. Almost. "Not quite. I don't get up here much. But today, I need a service." His eyes, while not darting about, were still taking stock of his surroundings. Interesting, Adlan thought, and his mood began to sour. He hated interesting.

"You picked a fine morning for it," he said, trying to get back on track. "Nice an' sunny today, mark my words. From the wall, you can see to Oblivion and back." No need to ruin his meal. He took a bite and continued. "What service brings you canalside? Lot of good fish down to the pier, I'm told."

"No fish," the man said. "As it happens, I'm looking to hire a courier."

"Ah. Plenty of us around. It's a decent line of work, and good pay, if you're reliable. There's an office down to the guardpost at the main gate, that's where we run our operation."

"Not just any courier," the man said. "I need somebody discreet, and with the experience to handle certain… difficulties that might arise. I'm looking to retain your services. Yours, specifically."

"Not how it works, sera." Adlan had a sixth sense for danger, developed at a time when he'd been fresh out of prison and stranded in a foreign port. He'd heard such a thing claimed by everybody from mercenaries to missionaries, and they'd described it as a kind of hyper-awareness. None of those poor, long-dead fools had been speaking of a literal sixth sense, however. Many things had happened to him during his sojourn to the homeland of his people, and most of them had changed him in appreciable ways. The sense that he'd developed at that time was an actual, tangible thing, and was currently scurrying around his forebrain. "You couldn't afford me either, I'm guessing, so whyn't you kindly piss off and leave me to my meal?"

"I'm not going to be paying you anything, Romayn. And as little as I like using coercion, I promise you: you will be taking me up on my offer."

Keep yourself to yourself, the Old Man had once told them, centuries ago. Your business is your own, and NEVER let them know your name. Good advice for a bunch of Morag Tong pups, and Adlan had possessed a natural talent for the trade unknown to his fellow trainees. The look on his face as he sat across from the old Breton bastard on this morning was one that he hadn't used in more years than he cared to remember. Longer even than the lifespan of some of his fellow elves. His skin had drawn tight, and his teeth were exposed in a leer that his current companions would find unnerving. No trace of the clown, at the moment. "Leave," he hissed. "Whoever you are, whatever you're asking of me, I'll have no gods-damned part of it."

"You will." Adlan was considering the skinning knife he'd concealed at his ankle when the old man continued. "Slayer of Gods. Moon-And-Star. Nerevarine." With the final statement, he seemed to deflate. Tapping the table for emphasis, and clearing his throat, he spoke again. "For Talos' sake, man, I know you. I know who you are and what you've done. And while I have nothing but respect for your anonymity, I. Need. Your. Help. The world needs your help. And you WILL accept. Because if you don't, I'm going to force you into open murder right here and now."

"You think me incapable of such a thing, then? If so, you've much to learn."

"I know you're capable of such a thing. Of many such things. I know that at one point, you'd have been done with the deed and away by now. I know that point was many lifetimes ago. I know more of you than has been written in any one codex or sung in the Ashlands, Romayn. I know how and why you committed deicide. I know how the action changed you, even if I don't know the specifics. I know you. And, as I said, I need you. Please."

"And the world. The world needs me, too." Adlan's expression hadn't changed. "Divine murderer and fallen hero, eh, s'wit? Nirn NEEDS a killer with such credentials?"

"Nirn needs many things, my friend. Possibly even a divine murderer, though I doubt it. As I said, all I'm looking for is a specific courier."

Adlan paused. "A courier. You weren't joking, then. Nor trying to goad me. Ballsy, old man."

"Please, call me Esbern. And believe me, I've never been known for my sense of humor." The moment of tension had lessened, but Esbern still seemed on edge. And still kept track of the movements in the tavern. "Amongst my hobbies, I'm a historian. A rather good one, at that. I believe that I've demonstrated a portion of my skill by my revelation of your... shall we say, former identity, wouldn't you agree?" Adlan said nothing. "Trust me, I don't speak of such things lightly. I've got to convince you. All the world depends on it. And if I fail, then I've failed at everything, and you will have to kill me. HAVE to. The first death of many to come, I assure you. The world quite literally hangs in the balance."

"All for the want of a courier."

"Well, yes."

Adlan wasn't angry anymore, but he found he'd lost his appetite. Gods damn destiny. Gods DAMN it. I've done enough, he wanted to say. I've done enough, and I've seen my friends and lovers die. Take this burden from me and leave me in peace, how is that too much to ask? He thought of divinity and mortality, and morality as expressed by divinity. The "morality" of the divine, in his experience, had always been wanting. He thought of a palace in opulence, set in full view of the poor and sick, lording over them. He thought of an unstable matriarch murdering a clockmaker in a fit of paranoid rage, justified solely by her godhood. He thought of a trade in slaves and narcotics being used to fund religious terrorism. And he thought, briefly, of a lowly prisoner being turned into a weapon against the faith of a nation. He thought of these things as a cloud moved across the sun. "Alright, Esbern," he finally said. "You need a courier, and it seems you may have found one. Convince me."

Esbern sat up. "Right. To begin with, we'll need to discuss Akatosh and Alduin, and believe me, nothing would make me happier than to leave them both in the far-distant past. However, I don't have that luxury. They're both germane to the problem, and as of noon today, that problem will concern not only Skyrim, but all of Nirn…"


End file.
